‘Elena!’
For a moment they clung to each other, Elena sobbing and Harald, conscious of but unembarrassed by Gotthelm’s grinning voyeurism, closed his eyes and hugged her until she gasped. She was so soft, and pressed against him their bodies seemed to melt together. When they parted and looked at each other they didn’t release their grip. Her fingers touched his face, and two ugly scars, and his own touch wandered from her mouth to her neck, and quickly, tentatively to her breasts, pressing against their softness, exploring the flesh that he longed to kiss without the encumbrance of her clothing.
She backed away and smiled, blue eyes alive with pleasure, long fair hair framing her face and shining with the distant firelight. ‘My father would go mad if he saw you do that.’
Harald froze, but managed to keep the smile on his face. ‘Elena …’
Before he could bring himself to tell her she kissed him again, a long and lingering embrace, her tongue darting into his mouth so that he jumped with surprise, but clutched her tightly, hands gripping her with his passion that rose and surged and forced its way between them.
He couldn’t tell her, not now, not yet. She hadn’t heard him tell his own father, and it would be so cruel to destroy her first moment of pleasure in a year (he hoped her first moment, at least) with the tragic news.
They stood in the doorway and watched the cloudy skies, felt the cold air dance before hot gusts from the fire; the smell of meat was heavy on the wind, mouth-watering; he could smell sour ale and that was mouth-watering too. A goat shrieked as it was slaughtered and he watched, his arms around Elena’s waist, as the carcass was dragged into the hall.
Despite the festivity, the pall of gloom was almost tangible. Men of the hold stood in small groups or alone and watched the gathering of strangers around the fire, the invited guests who were nevertheless being afforded the barest minimum of hospitality. There were so few women in sight that Harald wondered if some plague had hit the settlement, but he guessed that with strangers inside the palisade the women were crouched in the corners of their huts, fearing for their honour and their menfolk.
And gradually, as Harald sensed the unease about him, watched the superficial activity and the underlying fear of the group around the fire, so he came to realise who those unwelcome guests were …
‘Thor’s cry! Berserks!’
Elena slapped a hand across his mouth and her eyes widened with sudden fear. She pulled him back into the hut and eased the wooden door closed; Gotthelm shifted on his bed and tried to ease himself up.
‘Harald … are they out there?’
Elena looked at each man with a warning frown. ‘Keep quiet,’ she urged. ‘If we leave them alone they’ll do us no harm!’
Gotthelm laughed sourly. ‘Berserks? Love plays tricks with your senses. They may leave you in peace, or they may not, but whatever you do or don’t do, they’ll spill blood if the mood takes them.’
Harald glanced at Gotthelm and by the expression on his face tried to tell the man to keep quiet. Gotthelm subsided and closed his eyes. The bondgirl climbed on to the pallet with him and began to kiss his forehead. Gotthelm sighed with pleasure and began to take the girl very seriously, notwithstanding the vicious and deep gash in his left chest.
Harald turned back to Elena and took her by the arm, pulled her back to the door and peered out at the six shapes, still sitting peacefully by the fire.
What hatred he felt for the beasts! What loathing. To think that Elena had escaped their butchery by mere chance, visiting the hold as she so often had visited it to keep his mother company, weaving and embroidering during the long and lonely nights. If she had come tomorrow night she would never have come at all, but her mutilated body would still have been staring at Harald as an after-image of horror and shock …
What they had done at Unsthof made them no human brother of his, no northman blood kin … they were lower than wolves, less than a broken-legged pig … they did not deserve to live.
And here they were, feasting within the defensive walls of his father’s hold, burning his wood, eating the flesh of his soil, enjoying those protective comforts of the fortified settlement, and perhaps …
Perhaps growing towards one of those unpredictable and frightening rages that possessed them as a group, sending them whirling and shrieking, slashing and killing, oblivious of wounds, invulnerable to all but a mortal blow.
They were quiet now, but for how long?
In the name of Ull, why had they been let in? Wasn’t this settlement protected against just such roving bands of killers as these?
Why had they been let in?
Elena sensing the question, placed a finger across his lips and whispered to him. ‘They came first several months ago. In the height of winter they were cold and starving and they seemed calm. Your father let them in and they respected his hospitality, staying until they were strong and then leaving. They came again and again, each time for just a few days as they wandered the lands hereabouts, and they never abused the settlement in any way. This time it seemed pointless to argue, as it seemed pointless the last time they were here, but they brought with them a smell of blood when they came last night, and the hold is terrified; some of us sense they are close to a blood rage, and none of us want that. So we’re trying to keep as quiet and as normal as possible. With luck they’ll be gone tomorrow …’
‘With bad luck so will we,’ said Harald. ‘Why did my father ever agree to let them inside the gates? He knows the sort of animals those creatures are!’
‘They have a power over him,’ said Elena sadly, staring straight at Harald as if the directness of her gaze and her statements could alleviate the shock. ‘They seem to possess him, to grip his soul. Your father knows it and it weakens him, makes him disgusted with himself, but he is the hersir and none would ever dare to rebuke him. He needs you, Harald … help him …’
Harald nodded slowly, thoughtfully. He stared at the fire, at the silent Berserks, and wondered what sensations of the night, of the coming winter, of the future ran through their blood-crazy brains.
‘We must get them outside the hold,’ he said.
‘Why? They’ll go of their own accord before long.’
Would they, he wondered? Perhaps Unsthof was just the beginning; perhaps they had no intention of leaving Urlsgarde standing this time. They had overwintered here, and after a summer of killing and fighting, who knew where, they had returned as the first winter winds began to blow, cold and mournful. There was no telling how they might react, how they might have changed during the past few months.
And they had lost one of their band during the fury at Unsthof, and that might be preying on their minds; if they had any feelings at all those feelings might have been for revenge.
And yet …
There were only six of them, and from what Harald had seen it took a while for them to invoke the spirits that came from Odin, to rise to that great rage: a blood fury could be spontaneous at the smell of blood, but before battle they had to work into that rage, as if the possessing spirits had departed for a while, as if Odin, fighting and killing through the bear men he owned, tired easily of their filthy games and withdrew into the stars to rest and love, returning only when his appetite for chaos was sharp again.
These men were calm. It might be possible to attack and to kill them now, when their strength was normal, their spirits the normal dulled spirits of the lumbering human beasts they were.
As he watched them Harald felt an uncontrollable anger rise within him, saw red, the red of blood, heard sound, the sound of screams, the screams of the people he had known and respected at the farming village of Unsthof. Again, the tattered body of Bjorn the Axe haunted his mind’s eye. The grinning, dead face of the woman on the spear seemed to speak in a monotonous, Hel-guided curse – kill them, she said, revenge us, strike while Odin rests, use the strength of the wolf to counter the might of the Bear god … strike them … revenge us …
Harald’s head spun. El
ena drew back from him, struck by his suddenly distorted features, the feral anger that brought a growl to his throat, a blood-light to his eyes.
‘Harald …’ she began, but he waved her silent, and then turned on her, pushed her into the corner and snapped, ‘Stay there. Don’t move!’
Anger took his arms and legs and he walked, slowly, deliberately, to where his horse stood feeding at a low wooden trough; its saddle was still in place, the large leather bags still hanging across the pommel.
Reaching into one of the bags he drew out the bloody rag and the bulky object it concealed. Without unwrapping the cloth he walked to the fire and stood a few feet away, staring at the six Berserks.
Huddled together, crouched and bent towards the warmth, they seemed unfiercesome beasts. Shaggy hair shook as heads turned towards him; bodies tensed, and the thick fur wrappings they wore rippled and shifted as hands crept towards bone-scarred metal blades. Eyes watched him, mouths chewed, shapes stiffened … they remained silent.
‘I was at Unsthof,’ said Harald quietly. ‘I saw what you did.’
The nearest beast-man glanced at the others then back at Harald. He was red haired and wild, his eyes spread far apart and pig-like in his face; his nose and lips were thick and wet, and he drew an arm across his jowls to dry his features. Grease stained his beard, dripped from the piece of meat he held on to his thick leggings.
‘I saw what you did,’ said Harald.
Still silence.
Deliberately, then knowing that he would provoke them to anger but feeling unconcerned by the foolhardiness of the action, feeling unafraid of the consequences, he unwrapped the severed head and held it by its greasy, blood-matted hair. The head swung in his grasp, the dulled eyes regarding the eyes of its friends, and perhaps in their minds the dead lips spoke to them for they all cried out in anger, and cast their food on to the flames, drawing swords and tensing, waiting for the word to kill.
The Berserker nearest Harald didn’t move; he watched not the head but the arrogant youth who held it, and something in his face told Harald that he would survive this encounter but that the event would not be forgotten; the Berserker was half smiling, but when one of the others staggered upright and growled, ‘Let’s cut his slut-poker and stuff it …’ he was silenced abruptly.
Harald tossed the head on to the flame and watched as the fire ate the hair and the skin and crisped the flesh until it was indistinguishable from the charred wood.
‘The same for you all,’ said Harald. ‘The same for all killers of innocent farmers. The same for all beasts of Odin.’
And he turned and walked towards the great hall.
CHAPTER FOUR
An hour later, in the long hall, the gloomy atmosphere lifted for a while as the celebration of Harald’s return grew wild and noisy. The great fire spluttered and crackled as the carcass of the goat turned on its spit and browned and crisped, filling the muggy air of the hall with its own delicious stench; wood smoke stung the eyes and choked the lungs of the gathered menfolk who sprawled and lounged along the great table, listening to jests and tales that they had heard a hundred times before. Harald laughed as well, seated by his father who grimaced as he swilled the stolen mead that Harald had brought home, and spat the honey-sweet liquid into the fire where it flared for a moment.
Laughter.
‘Celtish piss!’ roared the old man, and reached for the pottery jug of sour ale. A far better drink, and far faster in its effect.
Harald too filled his horn mug with the local brew and drank it in great quantities, drowning out of his mind the haunting memory of the slaughter, the terrible responsibility he felt about breaking the news of her father’s death to Elena – and drowning most of all the fact of the killers seated outside the hall, brooding through the dark and cloudy night, tensing, rising towards some vile and mortal action.
Father and son lost themselves rapidly in the effects of the drink. Minds whirled, faces creased with laughter, hands slapped tables and spittle flew through the air to register disgust or amusement at some overblown or too often heard brag or tale from the gathered townsmen.
The remains of the summer berries, raspberries and mould-covered strawberries, were placed before them, with cakes of rye and acorn bread that soon vanished into hungry mouths.
The goat crisped. Harald felt his mind lose coherence, as his stomach fought the ale whilst it waited for food.
Most of the berries found themselves projected through the stinking air of the hall; berry war and laughter raged across the table; noisy, drunken youngsters stood and toppled as they voiced a story of some nearby wench whose legs had gripped them in the eternal vice behind some stable or other, or down by the water’s edge where seals played splash games, watching the human antics, safe for the moment as lust took time away from hunting.
Fathers growled and roared as they recognised their own daughters, but reason prevailed as the frightened youngsters protested that this girl was ugly, and the daughter of the prominent hauldr who so honoured the hold with his presence, was a girl for their dreams only and had never been touched by hand or ‘axe’.
At last the goat was served. Harald drew his honoured knife across the flanks and a great cheer arose from the hall. Hacking off his liberal portion Harald wolfed the meat and waited, hoping for the effects of the drink to drain away, but of course they didn’t.
He watched the spinning, reeling room, the rising smoke and awful flatulent stench assailing his nostrils and lending an unpleasant flavour to everything that passed his lips. The fire’s crackling was loud in his ears, the flickering of its yellow flame sending the writhing shadows of the gathered farmers dancing and gesticulating across the turf walls and the dry straw roof.
His father, perhaps himself now well barricaded against his grief behind the wall of drink, slapped his shoulders and urged his son to his feet.
And Harald, swaying unsteadily, grinned sheepishly as he looked at the suddenly interested host and began to tell of his adventures.
‘Bravely I fought …!’ he began loudly, but fell backwards on to the bench to a great cry of laughter and further urging to stand.
He swayed upright, raised his short sword into the air. ‘Singing life taker I christened my blade, and singing she took the life of … of … three Celtish sword-whores, who fought as fierce as Wolves, as rabid as a mad dog, but they fell before me, cut to ribbons … begging …’
He fell backwards again and the shrieks of laughter drowned a clap of distant thunder outside and above the hall.
‘Did you take MacNeill?’ called a voice, an old warrior whose early life had taken him to the same Celtic shores, fighting those same red-haired devils … green-eyed, red-haired he-wolves.
‘We struck his men down in droves,’ shouted Harald. ‘Gudrack is a mighty leader, with mighty strategy.’
‘Strategy?’ laughed the host of men. ‘What strategy?’
Harald swayed forward, started through glazed eyes at the heaving table, the distorted faces and bodies of the men. ‘A mighty strategy,’ he repeated, conscious of his slurring words. ‘We all formed …’ he drank from his horn, and waved the half-full mug at the farmers, slopping ale across his hand and his platter. ‘We all formed into a single huge block of men … mighty we looked, fiercesome we shrieked, our swords clattered against our shields and even the ghosts of the dead ran amok with fright as we sped down the valley – a mighty strategy. We smashed them to pulp! We cut them to ribbons! We trampled them into the green grass! Red ran everywhere; limbs lay twitching and heads, severed from their body, rolled away in fright as we approached, screaming for mercy, but we put out their eyes and boiled their brains. Mighty were the Norsemen.’
Again he slumped down heavily and the cheers and laughter brought him angrily back to his feet.
His father’s eyes streamed tears, of mirth, no doubt, and yet …
‘They laugh at me,’ murmured Harald, and Bluetooth sobered and shook his head.
‘They env
y you, Harald. They see themselves in you, but themselves as they were and can no longer be. Brash, youthful, full of life. They love you, Harald. They want to be you. Tell us more.’
‘There was this woman …’ said Harald loudly, thinking of the wench he had spared, but quickly trying to imagine how it would have been. The hall echoed to the howls of interest and, as the noise died, so Harald doubted his ability to lie.
‘No there wasn’t,’ he confessed, and laughter almost brought the roof down. ‘But there almost was,’ he shouted, and then fell sombre again.
‘But you couldn’t find a hook to hang your breeks,’ laughed a voice, and the company of feasting men fell hysterical to the table.
‘Tell us of your scars!’ shouted a younger man.
Harald drew himself upright and cradled his sword in his hand, oblivious of the terrible manners he was thus evidencing. ‘Fiercely I fought,’ he cried. ‘My war cry was terrible to hear. It struck fear into the hearts of the Celtish sluts. It struck fear into the hearts of the Celtish sluts. It struck fear into the hearts of my own brothers. Even Odin fell silent before my war cry …’
‘Aaagh,’ cried the host of men, impressed by the acceptable blasphemy.
Emboldened by this interest Harald went on: ‘I fought alone against ten red-haired giants of the tribe of MacCormac. Hissed their blades, but my blade hissed louder; flowed my blood, but their blood spilled with their tripes as I slit them groin to throat with slash after slash. Left for dead I lay on the green earth and cried my war cry even then, and the sound of it kept the loathsome sluts at bay.’
The table was thumped by fist and elbow as the youth’s bravado set the images of their pasts dancing in the farmers’ minds.
‘I closed my eyes and drew strength from my sword, from the souls of those it had eaten. I opened my eyes to see a black-robed valkyrie hovering above me, drooling on my face as she revealed and shook her full, white breasts and beckoned me upwards.
‘No! I cried, and she revealed her plump, soft thighs.